Savor
by Kat Harrcolys
Summary: In another life, someone had told her that loneliness was a choice. They never said that desolation crept up on you regardless. Hannibal's had enough of dancing around carefully crafted lines with his psychiatrist. Rated M for Sex and graphic depictions of violence
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Hannibal or anything by Thomas Harris. Soon, I'll add the television show to my collection though, because it will help me fan-out. This story takes place before the first season of Hannibal. It's basically a back story which I plan to continue and merge into the plot of the first season, eventually going further if I get a good response.

Thanks

Savor

She used to sleep on her back; peaceful. Dreams that used to consist of a future are long gone. Now the dreams come as darkness, crawling up her bedroom walls like black vine, constricting around her and squeezing out all the breath she could ever breathe. On her back she feels vulnerable, although she knows that one is vulnerable in their sleep. Her doctorate in psychology allows for self-analysis and she doesn't like what she knows is true. It's never nice to turn the spotlight on yourself, but it was indeed necessary. The vulnerability isn't the cause of her nightmares for lack of better word, there is an underlying terror that sits jagged on her neck, oozing into her veins and into her mind to plague her through the night and sleeps curled; so undignified, so unladylike. Her mother would surely be displeased and attribute this flaw to her lack of a husband or child. She almost had a child_ once_, but like her mother, he was gone. _He_ was gone as well, but that was of her own doing. She pushed him away, and yet she wanted him by her side. How could he still be interested in a woman who couldn't even bear to leave her house because of fear? When had she become so self-conscious and defeating? These thoughts sped through her head like rushing water.

"_You needn't be afraid, Bedelia; certainly not while you are trying to sleep." Her voice is cool and composed when she responds to his simple statement, so unlike the fetal position she was sporting just minutes ago when her hands were clutching the thick fabric of her comforter, drenching the sheets with her own sweat. She can feel is eyes on her flesh, making it tingle and burn like oil in a saucepan. She hates it when he looks at her like this, when he is trying to love her but instead he condescends. He is sitting up next to her now, and he ragged breathing has settled _

"_I am not afraid, Hannibal. Do not psychoanalyze me." She pauses, knowing that she cannot lie to him; that they know each other beneath the human-suits they wear each day. She sighs and runs a shaking hand through her long blonde hair, now tousled and messy. "That was rude of me." Immediately she feels a chill on her neck and rushes to cover it, even in the darkness. He cannot see. No one can see, not even herself. It is a reminder of what was and what will never be. As she moves her hand, he catches it, bringing it back to her lap. He will not let her go through this any longer. _

"_We cannot keep hiding from each other."_

"_We can't." She agreed, her hand tightening briefly around his. This contact was not rare for them, but never casual. Every touch meant something; it was never trivial. " But what about everyone else?" She asks into the darkness. He lays down into the bed and she follows, knowing that he is looking at her but not able to see his face. She can tell that he is looking at her earnestly this time, and his words are not condescending, but soothing._

"_They will only know half-truths."_

_She was able to sleep soundly for the rest of the night. _

She attempted a sigh that instead came out in huffs as she struggled to breathe; tried to get the feeling of hands from around her neck. He wasn't here to console her. She wondered if he missed her but her head shook from the naive thought. In another life, someone had told her that loneliness was a choice. They never said that desolation crept up on you regardless. As she dialed the numbers on the phone perched her bedside table she trembled, before stilling herself. _Would he answer?Could she blame him if he didn't? _Scolding herself, she moved the receiver to her ear and waited as it continued to ring. She wasn't some 15 year old girl calling to see if the boy from her math class would like to go out to the movies; she hated feeling like this. She stepped back into her human suit, a mask of composure when his voice answered with a simple 'hello.'

"I apologize for the late-night call. I've thought about your offer…" She paused listening to his breathe on the other line, remembering a time when she could feel it in her hair. When had she gotten this desperate? What had she become? Her voice was cold like ice, and she needed to keep it that way. She hoped he wouldn't call her by her first name, while hoping he would at the same time. Talk about cognitive dissonance. Should she really be practicing? Could she even accept these meetings? It was highly unethical. Quickly she made up her mind, sliding back into her assertive persona for the first time in months."Sessions will begin on Thursdays, as you suggested in your availability report."

"Excellent. Goodnight…Dr. Du Maurier."

Loneliness was indeed a choice.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own Hannibal or anything by Thomas Harris. Soon, I'll add the television show to my collection though, because it will help me fan-out. This story takes place before the first season of Hannibal. It's basically a back story which I plan to continue and merge into the plot of the first season, eventually going further if I get a good response.

Savor: Chapter 2

The sessions start out slow. He doesn't need to say much because she knows mostly everything about him; things he's never told anyone. He found pieces of himself in her and he can't help but regret the current state of their relationship. The past was the past and it couldn't be helped. Early in their relationship, she told him that he should be careful; that one in the field of forensic psychology doesn't normally 'seek' particularly violent clients. Of course, a man such as himself had his reasons and she knew of them. He was careful and precise. One in his type of work had to be quite good at anticipating a person's actions; it was even easier once you made a critical mistake that altered your life, resulting in you having 'sessions' once a week with your intimate partner.

"Dr. Lector, what brings you to this session today?" She starts off, her eyes locked on the pad of paper that sits in her lap.

"Dr. Du Maurier, would you mind looking at me as we talk?" He asks calmly, crossing his legs, and waiting for her crystal-blue orbs to meet his. She looks up and he hand twitches on the pad of paper, her ever-so-finely crafted person-suit begins to peel away. As with any suit, first the cufflinks come undone. It's a tedious procedure, but more will come in time. "I came to discuss us, since you refuse to meet under any other circumstances. Bedelia, I will not play games with you." His voice is authoritarian but she is surprised to hear the lack of irritation in his voice. He is not angry, just stating a fact. Maybe that is what infuriates her so much; that he never loses control while she gets rope-burn from reigning in her emotions every time they speak. She abruptly gets up from her uniquely upholstered chair, its fabric imported from their trip to Germany, and tries to leave the conversation. He grabs her wrist from his seated position and rises, pulling her close and she can't help herself any longer. She moves quickly, her lips furiously attacking his and she pulls away to breath, only to have her chest, her lungs, her body burn for more. The kisses are rough and deep on his lips and when he kisses back, he does so with urgent fervor, eager to show her just how much he's missed her. He forces his tongue into her mouth, eliciting a deep moan that had been in the works for months and his rough but agile hand moves to cup her breast, her eyes rolling in pleasure. She misses the feeling of his body pressed against hers of his tongue moving over her teeth amongst other places. He leans into her and she briefly loses balance in her shoes, reaching back to the table behind her and gripping it for support.

_Her heel slides to the side, making her lose the leverage she had. She can't fall, she just can't. It wouldn't be good, for either of them. She stumbles back, recoiling from the slap to the face, and her hand finds the mahogany wood of her desk and grips it for support._

Her body immediately goes rigid and her eyes widen in utter terror. He notices immediately, and opens his eyes to find that he is being forcefully pushed off of his lover. His confusion dissipates as quickly as it arrives, and he can't help but feel her still on his lips. Her hands are shaking and she's suddenly pale. "P-please." She begins, scolding herself for the stutter and weakness in her voice. He knows that she's afraid and she can't stand it. She feels so weak, so powerless. _Everything is ruined._ Bedelia closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, becoming Dr. Du Maurier once again. "Please leave, Dr. Lecter." She voices tonelessly, walking out of the living room, clawing at the scraps of dignity she still possessed.

* * *

He buttons the jacket of his suit and sits in the chair for a moment, relishing in the fact that this is the first time they've touched in months. He wants to comfort her, but knows she would think of him as patronizing. He was quite the patron, despite his best efforts. Wanting to adhere to her request, he rises from the chair and leaves her living room, hoping that if still knows her as well as he would like to believe, he would see her again soon enough.

* * *

Reaching the powder-room with the dark grey colors he suggested, she closed the door and forced her shaking hands to turn the lock. She looks tousled and feels weak for leaving, but this is her session. He is her patient. She is in control. The mantra she told so many other women to recite after their attack does her no good and she feels hypocritical. Why is she even reciting it? She can't even kiss her previous lover without feeling _his _presence, and knowing immediately what she lost; not that she could forget. She hears her front door click closed, and let's out something caught between a sigh and a sob. He doesn't bother to argue with her anymore and she's begun to feel like a lost cause. She wants to be normal again, to go outside, to be with him, but she can't, knowing that everything is ruined. He would never voice it, but he blames her. She blames herself. There is dampness on her lips; she realizes when a chill fills the room. She brings her now steady fingers to her lower lip to find the result of one of his eager kisses remaining in a small trail of red, now covering her fingertip.

She licks the trail with her tongue and runs her hand through her hair. Later, she will call to remind him of his appointment next week, and she will be able to hear the wry smile on his lips when he answers that he is looking forward to it.


	3. Chapter 3

Savor: Chapter Three

She's walking through the woods when she suddenly feels like the trees are following her, their branches casting harsh shadows against the rough terrain. The tree branches begin to stretch out for her, until one has caught her sweater and suddenly they begin clawing at her neck, scratching the skin free and spoiling her alabaster skin, turning it a dark shade of crimson. Dark spears emerge from roots and begin tearing her clothes into tatters and leaving cuts along her legs as she runs, wondering briefly why it was so important to do her hair when it's now getting snagged and ripped from her scalp. She stumbles over a branch and cries out for help, cursing the name that appears on her lips '_Hannibal.' _Swallowing the bile that's in her throat she staggers up onto two feet in the hope to run again, but her legs wobble and soon the roots wrap around her ankles and drag her through the woods, a sickening sound of surprise and pain coming from her throat. The wind is gone from her chest, from her body and she desperately needs it back. She's breathless and startled when the she feels water against her skin but desperately terrified when the once shadows of tree branches slither up her legs like snakes and wrap to pull her under deeper and deeper; she suddenly knows what it's like to drown, to have life seep through your gasping breaths. Her eyes are shut tightly as she kicks her legs against the restraints finding that the substance doesn't feel like water at all, but like molasses. Years of swimming recreationally and for sport tell her she should be moving, that her legs "move like scissors slicing through the water" but this feels more like tar than water and it seems like there's no bottom. Finally she opens her eyes, only wanting to close them again. She can clearly see through the thick substance, like crystal-clear water from the Bahamas, shrouded in the darkness of shadows pulling her deeper and deeper. Soon the shadows no longer look like tree branches or snakes, but they've formed into hands that are snaking their way up her body; she wishes the serpents were back instead. Despite her protests, they wrap tightly around her neck like a boa constrictor and squeeze. The hands soon become arms and the arms soon become attached to their owner and she knows that this is the end. He isn't coming for her again. She can see her reflection in the black pupils of his green eyes and the way her own eyes bulge frightens her to know end. She's going to die; everything they worked so hard for has ended.

_"Bedelia," He whispers, shaking her gently. She wakes with a strangled gasp and begins clawing at her throat and kicking out of the blankets, trying to get the hands off of her. His brow furrows and he curses himself for not coming to her office sooner. He was just angry with her; he wanted to scare her, as terrible as it sounded. They way she'd told him she could handle anything; that he didn't run her life pulled at the straws of his carefully constructed manners. The referral was an awful decision he knew, but he thought for sure she would go on leave after seeing him once; that she would admit her wrongdoing and they would move on. Once was enough for him to come back for her, and he was lucky to find her when he did. Now, he wonders if he's spoiler her; irreparably damaged her. She's sobbing on his chest, apologizing, asking when the nightmares are going to dissipate. As a fellow psychologist, he knows she's well aware of the answer so he won't patronize her with a response. Instead, he pulls her closer and murmurs that he loves her, and she is able to sleep again, this time soundly._

She wakes with a start, snapping up in her bed as she gasps for air. Gone are the days that she would fight with her blankets and claw at her neck. Now, she only feels the essence of his hands on her throat, but she wonders if his presence is like a tattoo, forever marking her flesh and conscious. There are no whispers in her ears tonight about how everything will be fine and how she's beautiful, only the cold loneliness of her king-sized bed half empty. The nightmares come less frequently now, but she can't stop them from coming altogether, so she accepts them. Everyone has their own demons, Hannibal included. She knows he dreams of losing his sister; he misses her. She checks the clock only to realize that it's almost time to greet the day. Soon, Hannibal will be coming and she _will _face him appropriately today.

* * *

"I have a conversation with a version of you. And hope that the actual you gets what he needs." She states coolly in response to his admittance of honesty. He's not telling her the things he used to and she feels disconnected- it's of course her own doing but still it nags at her conscious.

"A version of me." He states. It is not a question and he's made that explicitly clear. She wonders why she's being so difficult and she can't help but try to figure out why he's still coming to see her; why he hasn't killed her yet. She wants to believe he _loves _her but so much has happened and she knows he's numb to the concept. Instead of asking him if those whispers were true, which she knows they were, she continues to tell him about his person-suit, eventually amending it to a 'veil' realizing that he seems to like that better. She wants him to be happy, even if she isn't outside with him anymore. She worries about him, knowing that he can take care of himself, but fearful of those who can take care of him. There's over 1000 active serial killers in the United States at any given moment and with his recent work she knows the risk is high. She should be out with him again, at least there to keep watch; he'd never let her pristine fingers touch them. She's glad he came to her that; he didn't give up; he needs someone to talk to. Will Graham is certainly going to be a problem and she senses Hannibal is developing a relationship with him. He needs her more now than ever. She won't admit that half the need comes from herself; that would be unethical, and she can't simply be unethical with him, not when he's the only patient she has left; the only thing that's keeping her tethered to the outside world.

"Are you getting what you need, Bedelia."

* * *

His words break her from her reverie and she's suddenly reminded that she was remembering the events of their previous conversation, now concentrated on his discussion of his new patient. She knows that he can't stand the man, and wishes he would just be honest with her like he used to be; they've both lost things recently though, and she can't hold it against him.

"I worry that I've made Franklyn feel powerless. He wants to be my friend. His obsession with me is interfering with his progress." She knows what he's going to say next and once he does she can see the regret on his face.

"Referrals can be complicated," she responds, crossing her legs over one another. "I referred you to another psychiatrist. You refused." He goes on to tell her that he was more tenacious than Frankie and his lips quirk.

_She's sitting at her desk pouring over files from her latest patient; he's not responding to her treatment and she makes a note to mention it around colleagues later. There's a soft knock on her door. 'Is it 4pm already?' _

"_I didn't expect to get a call from you today, Dr. Du Maurier."_

"_I apologize for any inconvenience it caused you, Dr. Lecter," she says smoothly, closing her folder and removing her reading glasses. She rises and smoothes out the nonexistent wrinkles in her pristine suit. He shakes his head, telling her that it is no trouble at all and she smiles slightly, coming close to him, her hair parted to one side just like he likes it._

"_Hannibal, I need to refer you to another psychiatrist…Dr. Green would be a good fit, I think" His back becomes straighter than she ever thought possible, and she can feel the immediate tension despite his persona of upmost pleasantness. Suddenly his eyes become feral but he remains completely still. "It's unprofessional for us to see each other as therapist-client." She tilts her head upward to look at him and her uncharacteristically amethyst lips beckon for him to come closer so he does, eliciting her sultry whisper "I need you inside me."She's surprised when he breaks contact immediately crossing the room to the door, but a smirk forms on her face when she sees his fingers reach for the lock._

"_It would be rude to keep a lady waiting, now wouldn't it?" He speaks lowly into her neck, his nose moving up her carotid, leaving small bites along the way. She moans in pleaser and reaches for his belt-_

"You're going to kill him, aren't you Hannibal." He shifts in his chair from her terse words, his thoughts of their first time together lost in his preconscious once again.

"If necessary, Dr. Du Maurier." He hasn't called her by her first name since she corrected him on it, explaining that she was his psychiatrist, not his friend, words that mirrored the conversation he had with his aforementioned patient. He could see the coldness in her eyes when she said it, but behind that sat the fear; the knowing that the memories of their relationship together just could be the thing that tears her apart. He was_ afraid _for her. She played the part of his psychiatrist with a frailty that he could barely handle. He needs her; needs to tell her that he's going to help her, that he can't afford to see her crumble like a castle built on sand.

"I want to be supportive of you... after what happened."

"I'm not the only psychiatrist who's ever been attacked by a patient," she says softly, her hands in her lap as her thumb runs over it repeatedly; a nervous habit she's claimed to have eradicated as a child when her mother would smack her and instruct her "not to fidget" and "be a lady." She wants him to stop; she doesn't want to talk to him about this right now. For him to even think that her first thought of his obsessive patient would be back to her attack is insulting to say the least. She doesn't need to confirm his thoughts, because he elaborates.

"to even bring up the subject of an obsessive patient because of your traumatic experience."

"Hannibal... I'm your psychiatrist," says Bedelia. "You're not mine."

"I apologize, Dr. Du Maurier." He says, getting up from his seat and straightening his suit. He knows she will not offer him wine tonight. He's condescended; miscalculated the extent of her progress. He can now feel like she's getting back to the one he knew. He was testing to see if she was offended, and now that she is he can step a little deeper into the ocean that is his lover. "Next week." He says, walking out of her den, passing the orchids that reside in the vase on her endtable.

* * *

"You killed him." She affirms strongly, and he can see that she is getting stronger herself. Her voice is frail, but no longer a whisper in her throat.

He goes on to tell her about Franklyn but the subject soon changes. He can tell she's angry that he tried to play the part of being truly sad for killing his patient. He's not just guilty about Franklyn and he knows she can sense it.

"Every person has an intrinsic responsibility for their own life, Hannibal. No one else can take on that responsibility. Not even you," She says, finally mustering the ability. She knows he is referring to her, and she can't let him continue walking on eggshells around her. She wants to be like she used to be, but she can't help but feel like things will never be the same; that he will never forgive her.

"Did you take responsibility when you were attacked by your patient?" he asks, wanting to hear the words from her lips. Simply getting her to talk about it is a blessing.

"Yes," she says. "But I don't take responsibility for his death." She presented herself with regality and poise, but beneath that he could see the neurotic fear; the bags that she hid with make-up. She wasn't sleeping. Had she been to the Doctor recently? He wanted to be there for her, but as a fellow psychiatrist he knew that he couldn't push her. Last time he pressed to much it nearly tore him apart; leaving as she slammed the bathroom door and gasped in her powder room from an anxiety attack. He sees her tense up once again and fears that she's closing off to him once again, and he can't afford to wait months again; he needs her now, needs her to be herself again.

"Nor should you," He says firmly and notices that her fidgeting stops, and her hands come unclasped, one moving to rest over her midsection as she turns her head away from him. She knows he's not referring to _his_ death, not to her attacker, but to the one who took life from her, from _them_ and she can't bear to hear that, not yet; not ever. If he told her he didn't blame her, then she would need to deal with the issue; with the fact that their child would never be born and she just couldn't; she couldn't seem to deal with anything, really. She couldn't even run a proper practice, fearing the loss of her pointless life. If he forgave her, then soon she'd have to forgive herself, and that was just unacceptable. She got up then, a shutter wracking her body as she reaches out for armchair for stability.

"You haven't been eating again, Bedelia." He says, rising to grasp her arm for support. Her flesh heats at the touch and she would shake him off if it didn't feel so good to have him touch her again; to touch him. She looks up at him, concern in his gaze, and she can't believe this is the man that kills so many, or that she is the woman who once helped him in what felt like an eternity ago. She shakes her head. "I'm going to make you dinner tonight," he affirms, rubbing her arm with his thumb through the lovely fabric of her fine suit. Of course, it won't be a delicacy, but they were never greedy; there was no need to eat delicacy every night despite the fact that there were endless rude people inhabiting the world. Soon, she feels tendrils on her neck again and he disconnects, walking towards her kitchen in hopes that she wouldn't shut him out or ask him to leave. He wanted her to let him in; at least to make sure her health was alright. He'd noticed she'd been losing weight over their past few sessions and he couldn't help but to feel as though he was to blame. He needed to help her heal, so soon _they_ could heal together. If she'd just let him make her dinner…just that. He was waiting for her to tell him to "go away," to lie once again and state that they were "only colleagues" and he began to hear soft gasps from behind him, realizing that she was once again having an anxiety attack just from simple contact. He continued to confidently walk to the kitchen, hoping she wouldn't yell and run off again.

He stops when he hears her heels on the floor; her breath is suddenly normal and it surprises him; she was always good at doing that. They click across the hard-wood floor, and she's behind him, her front pressed against his back. Her hands are trembling as they reach around his midsection, barely able to touch all the way around. She is holding him lightly and he can tell it is bothering her but she's always been strong.

"I would like that. Thank you." He can feel her breathing in his scent as her curls rest against his strong back and he smiles, the first genuine one since he realized how useful Will Graham could be to them.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal's had enough of dancing around carefully crafted lines with his psychiatrist.

A/N: Story breaks from storyline (meaning books/tv) here and divulges into my own plot bunny. Principle characters are now being brought in.

Savor: Chapter 4

"_I would like that. Thank you." He can feel her breathing in his scent as her curls rest against his strong back and he smiles, the first genuine one since he realized how useful Will Graham could be to them. _

The buzzing in his pocket breaks him from his smile but he refuses to answer the call he's receiving. Whoever it is can wait now; he was finally making progress with her. His phone goes silent and he relaxes until it begins its onslaught on their peace again. He feels her arms tense and slide off his body. She walks past him and into the kitchen, heels clicking across the hardwood floor. He wants to call out to her, but he knows her walls are up once again. She's determined her actions as foolish. Instead of going after her once again he takes out the phone that continues to ring, revealing several missed calls. He answers this time, and it's Will Graham calling for an impromptu appointment. She's handing him a glass of wine, drinking her own.

"I understand." She affirms, taking another drag from the blood-red liquid. She always was one for red wine. She doesn't want him to think she's this _desperate, _this _needy, _but she feels better knowing that at least she could _touch _him again without being reminded. She was never was before and she certainly won't make a habit out of it now. The appointments were enough. He already thought she couldn't handle her own mental health, she didn't need to give him another reason. He catches a glimpse of the mark on her neck and immediately she notices, sliding her hair to cover the mark.

"_You have a beautiful neck."_ She immediately shakes the memory and gets back to the conversation at hand. She needs to tell him; he must listen.

"Be careful with Will Graham. He's not what you thought."

"I am in control."

"Whatever you're doing with Will Graham" she begins, pursing her lips, ready to deliver the word that she needs to be firm. He has to listen to her, if only for this. "Stop." It's one of the few times she's been so dominant with him, but he recovers quite quickly. Jack had begun to get too close, and if he was too close, what did that mean for Will Graham? She'd had this conversation with him before, and he was simply sick of it, but she continued nonetheless. "You cannot function as an agent of friendship _for_ a man who is disconnected from the concept _as_ a man who is disconnected from the concept." His eyes dart to hers, the mask flying over his eyes before he can show his shock in them. He finds it difficult to hide himself around her; like she has the zipper to his person-suit in her agile fingers and slides It down when she wants, revealing his true skin. He wonders when he began to put this suit on in front of her; probably around the same time she began to veil her neck. He's always loved her hair, but now he wishes to push it all aside and leave bite marks along the pale skin that flushes when she's nervous. Instead of snapping at her for her seemingly rude comment, he continues with their conversation.

"I'm protecting Will from influence." She loses concentration at the moment, solely focused on his body…the way it was tensing. "I'm not comfortable telling Will that my very best attempts to help him may fail and that my loyalty to him and his treatment could be compromised." _That I failed you._ She's alert to his words again then; she's got him finally showing emotions. He claims that she's the sick one but he's fuming, pacing back and forth. They'll discover him quickly if he begins to devolve and she refuses to let that happen.

_"Then tell him something else,"_ She speaks then from between her teeth. He doesn't get the message that he's gotten too close; that he isn't seeing Will Graham as an object of their use anymore. When he still looks unfazed at her words, she continues, aiming to get his attention. She _will _have it. She's tired of dancing around in circles with him even though she knows it's of her own making. This was _her_ design and she despised it. _This is about us, Hannibal. Our lives. Not Will Graham's_: "Agent Crawford also asked me about my attack."

He stops pacing and his voice is nearly a whisper, one that sends a shiver up her spine. "I see…what did you tell him?" For a moment she is truly terrified. She feels like she doesn't know him anymore.  
"Half-truths," she says. "That... a violent patient swallowed his tongue while he was attacking me. I didn't tell him how or... why... or _who _was responsible." At the end of their conversation he leaves without hesitation, irritated with her insinuations but more so with himself. She shouldn't have had to fight for his attention; she shouldn't be questioned about her attack by strangers. Jack Crawford had targeted her; he had the audacity to read her file and _attack_ her. She'd always been strong willed, constantly telling him to be careful when she could barely stop herself from shaking when she collected her mail. He hadn't been careful enough and now Jack Crawford was coming to question _her._ He can't be around her right now, knowing that he's put her in danger. The half-truths will begin to pile if he doesn't sort out these issues. It is time; he must tie up the loose ends so they can move on.

He arrives at her door much later than his regular appointment time, calling her this time to remind her of his intended lateness. She knows why he hadn't called last time, attempting to save her from the barrage of questioning from Jack Crawford. If he didn't call her, she knew nothing…he couldn't ask her anything. He waltzes into her living space-turned therapy room, remembering when people would come to her home and admire the art, the flowers, the_ wine..her._ She smiles slightly, happy that he has listened and backed off of Will Graham. He created a replacement for his sister in Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs by mistake. She already pushed him to kill Abigail Hobbs and if Will kept influencing him, she might have to do it herself; that is, If she could ever step two feet out of her house. She knows he'll never leave him alone, as apparent from his recent visit to the jail, but Will's current state of jail time has given Hannibal time for reflection; it's why he hasn't called her for a week since their dinner. She's worried that he'll soon find his way on the other side of those bars if he continues with Will Graham, but he's angry. In their previous conversation he attempted to bait her with Abigail Hobbs, failing miserably.

"_I never considered having a child…"_

He had hoped it would be an easy stab to open her up like one of his previous speciments. He should have known it would _never _be easy with her, but he'd hope seeing his mourning would make her _remember;_ make her _feel _again.

She knows he'll be coming for her sanity soon enough…she knows. Their dinner previously had the potential of escalating quickly before she shut him down by warning him about his _pattern. _Distracting him had been her goal and he left soon after, leaving the sweet taste of 'veal' in her mouth. He's been going easy on her for the past few sessions but she knows soon he'll be fed up with this fake relationship they've created and perpetuated. Quite frankly she's tired of pretending as well. She imagined their previous dinner would have tasted even sweeter secondhand from his lips. No. She needed to stop herself before she let herself go completely. This was the _only _control she had left, but she felt like he was planning on making her lose that today. Soon as she sits down in the chair, he begins his onslaught.

"I lied when I told you I never considered having a child," He catches her eyes for a brief moment, but knows she is too polite to interrupt their conversation, so instead she runs her thumb over her hand. He needed to be honest; being their conversation with something to catch his attention like she had previously done to him. He brought this conversation up before, but she skimmed over it with ease, sliding well into the role of his psychologist. Will Graham is out of his mind now, successfully framed and locked away. She warned him of Will in their previous dinner conversation but he doesn't think of that now. He thinks of wishing to bring her to the Gallas; sit with her at the Opera. He misses the moments when she would sit next to him in her regalia, using her crystal-blues to focus briefly on the rude people in the crowd, and then running her soft fingers over his suit sleeve with a coy tug of her lips. He will move her past this, despite the consequences. He needed her emotion back, her passion. It was in there sometime, buried underneath all the nightmares and apathy. He will unzip the person suit she's wearing, first by taking off his own. He's prepared to dig into this subject, pulling it from the pits of her soul and putting it on a platter, much like he did with Abigail. At least he got her to eat last week after their brief spat. It was the first time he'd cooked for her in ages. They need to stop this psychologist-patient act. Her lips are thin and small lines frame her face because she knows what's coming next. She made it through their first conversation; his mock mourning over a child he had minimal feelings for. He has to continue, as much as he hates to do this to her. He misses the talks they used to have wrapped in elegant silk blankets, and he needs to talk to her; she's the only one he can truly talk to. Will Graham was their science experiment together. Now, it seemed like it was all useless; she can't leave the house and has little interest in anything. He wonders briefly what she does all day in this house, alone. Why is it that she's still able to dress elegantly when the sun hasn't drenched her skin for months? He knows she's trying to maintain her dignity, to keep herself up for appearances because she feels like it's all she has left. He continues, nonetheless, hoping to expose her. She needs it…needs to be herself again. "5 months ago is the first time I ever considered it." He delivers the words with a shutter of his lips, something she hasn't heard since that day and she can't bear it. His emotions were always the hardest for her to deal with and she will not be toyed with. He will not manipulate her like this, but his eyes catch her off guard. The windows to the soul, she was once told, and his glistening pupils were telling her that he was not playing with her like he had Will Graham. She can't. She just can't.

"You…" She begins coolly, closing her eyes for a moment and bringing her fingers to the bridge of her nose to regain her composure. "This is not prope-" He mustn't let her regain her composure, so he continues immediately.

"He would be one month now-"

"I am _not _doing this." She sighs with frustration, running her hand through her hair, breaking one of the curls which slides easily back into place. She uncrosses her legs and attempts to leave the room, only for him to rise in front of her. She knew he wasn't going to let her past, and her fists ball at her sides, feeling the fury rise like bile in her throat. "You're _not_ my psychiatrist, Hannibal." She sidesteps to leave the room, as he anticipates her movements and mirrors her. The quick movement startles her and she steps back for a moment before attempting to move again. She feels so empty; She wants her words to hurt him like knives, and she knows exactly where to stab him. They are _nothing_. "We are only colleagues." She lies, knowing that it will infuriate him beyond all belief, similar to how he's done to her. He wasn't the only psychologist; not the only one capable of simple manipulation.

He grabs her shoulders then, sick of dancing along imaginary lines; climbing walls only to have them built higher. He feels like the World is crumbling; their standing on castles made of sand, and he needs her the most now. He shakes her like a soda can and can't control his anger . "We are _anything but colleagues." _He spits and her eyes shake in their sockets, focusing on his. She thought she could deal with this side of him but her vision begins to swim and her knees give a quick shake before stabilizing. Her windpipe suddenly feels really tight but she feels his fingers tightly pressed to her collar bone and shoulder blades. God, she thinks he's going to _kill_ her. He brings his voice down when he notices her terror, but refuses to let her go; to return to her room and stack her walls with more mortar, for him to climb over; to lock herself away from him again. "We nearly had a _child _together." At this, her hands grasp his arms through the pristine suit and she tries to push away from him, her face flushing pink.

"Stop," She commands, with a roar in her voice he hasn't heard in months.

"You can't avoid him, Bedelia." Her head shakes and she pushes his chest. He finally lets her go and she stumbles back, trying to get as far away from him as possible and grasps her couch, gasping for air.

"Stop!" Her shaking hand reaches up and moves through her curls, a futile attempt to calm herself. Her voice is stern and commanding when she finally feels it's safe to speak again. She is in control. " ." When she doesn't hear his feet or the telltale sound of her heavy door closing, she spins around, livid. Her neck is slightly showing and he can see the hints of red slashed across.

"I will no-" The slap to his face stops his words.

"He was our son!" She explodes, wrathfully hurrying over to the flowers he had sent, as if she didn't just assault him. Her voice is rough and dry when she snarls , anger plastered on her beautiful features, "And you didn't care." Her hand sweeps violently across the table, sending the vase crashing to the floor of and the orchids tumbling over his feet. He strides over to meet her and grabs her struggling wrist, tugging her toward him admist her protest. He runs his hand over her long sunbeam hair and flicks it back to reveal the jagged red scar that taints the angelic color of her flesh. His voice comes out like a canon, booming over the whole room, as his face contorts in anger.

"I didn't mean for _this_ to happen!" The sudden coolness on her neck is alarming and her eyes widen in an attempt to hide it from him; from herself. Flashes swim in her vision and she must push them away, push him away.

_"Help, oh God, please help me" she cried, calling for a god she didn't believe in._

_ Hands around her neck, pain stabbing in her abdomen, blood seeping into her underwear._

"Get off of me!" She shrugs aggressively away from his touch, wanting to put up more a fight, to beat at his chest, but her voice is raw when she responds softly, tears running down her face.

"_H-Hannibal…what's happening?" She moans as she slides down the wall, his arms reaching to brace her weight. Her attacker is gone, but her vision is in stars and she can't seem to see anything, only his eyes. One of her eyes feels bigger than the other and her body seems to be on fire. She's slipping in and out of consciousness, but she's suddenly aware of the trickle down her legs and into her carpet, shoes long kicked off in battle. "You can't save him." She grabs out for his arm, and lets out a small gasp of pain before slipping into the darkness._

She means to yell at him again, but instead "I let him _die_,_" _tumbles out of her mouth. He pulls her close to him, wrapping her in his arms and breathing in her scent deeply.

"You did not. It wasn't your fault." He whispers into her hair. "We cannot keep hiding from each other." She is reminded of their words spoken in hushed voices under her covers. She feels empty. She misses him. Her ears suddenly perk at a clanging noise and she sees a form come into the panel of her window. Her tiny form stirs against his chest, and he lets loosens his grip, only to realize that she's walking towards her garden.

He turns around and sees nothing, but is quick to follow on her heels. She reaches the storm door revealing her garden sporting a newly grown red fern.

"Ms. Lounds." She states, stopping the curly red head from her attempted getaway, her clothes snagged on the thorns of her plants. She even had difficulty coming to her once loved garden, which is now overgrown, vines climbing up the side of her house. She begins to quake and stills herself. She takes several steps out onto the cobblestones she paved herself, as Hannibal stood in the doorway, watching with fascination as she fought with her body, attempting to stop the quakes that rattled her in fear. Bedelia smiled as she walked to the now trembling Lounds, crouching down to grab her sweater with agile fingers and remove the thorn vines that had kept her in place. "These plants can be tricky, Ms. Lounds," Bedelia says as looks up at the woman and notices that she unclenches her fists from the guard that runs around her back patio and garden. She continues:

"They used to snag me all the time, but I came up with a trick to stop them from sticking me." Her voice is soft and fragile and it fits from the information she wheedled out of her source. She talked as if someone's hands were still wrapped around her neck. Freddie laughed nervously and straightened her sweater. At least she was around this Bedelia woman. She knew Hannibal was a monster, she just didn't have any evidence. She was sure Hannibal would have harmed her if he caught her again, so she decided to make small talk with this woman who'd inevitably saved her. This poor, kind soul.

"What do you do to stop the snags?" She humored the woman. Honestly, she needed to work on her sleuthing skills. These easy finds recently had made her rusty. She had her sources, knew when he visited this woman. She'd attempted to tail him before but when he knocked on her door, meal in hand, he found her hiding place immediately. Needless to say she left tire marks on the street. How was he always a step in front of her? He was hiding something, and he brought the frail woman in front of her into it. She hadn't seen anything on this 'stakeout' but Hannibal hugging the woman who appeared to be crying. Why was she crying as his therapist? What had he done to convince this woman to be his therapist? Had he been her strangler? The woman was shaking from being around him, and Freddie felt bad for her. She thought for sure she was more careful this time in her sneaking, but the previously trembling woman who'd saved her from Hannibal's wrath found her without missing a beat. Must be the red hair. Suddenly, a thought hit her when she caught the woman's icy blue eyes, cold and unnerving. Her eyes were just like Doctor Lector's, depthless and unsettling. She _must _be in on it, Freddie Lounds pieced her thoughts together. Whatever evil he was doing, _she knew._ There was nowhere to go, the young journalist realized glancing around the darkened gated garden. She waited anxiously for the woman to rise and give her a cryptic answer, sending her on her way like Hannibal had once done. Bedelia gave her a soft smile then, rising to her full height from her previous crouched position.

"The key is pull them before they grow thorns."

Before she knows it the kind Dr. Du Maurier's tiny hand is on her face, squeezing. She tries to scream, but the falling sensation is short and her head soon meets the stone.

Freddie Lounds head collides with the ground, knocking her out cold; if she was awake she would feel the sensation of being punched repeatidly, but alas, she feels nothing; sees nothing. Bedelia lets out a small huff of exhaustion and grabs the woman's shoulders,her body like a ragdoll; head falling back uncontrollably. She bashes the woman on the stones of her garden over and over, letting out the anger and aggression she's felt for months. About her_ child, _about _Hannibal_. The tattler's blog has been quite insulting lately and she vowed to kill the woman if she could ever leave her home, but the woman had the audacity to come to her. How _dare_ she interrupt them! How _dare _she! This was her _home._ She felt _safe_ hereand she tried to ruin it,_ruin him._ Her blue orbs were wide and crazed, her hands balled in the fabric of the woman's sweater. She would not let her take _him _from her. He was _hers!_ Rude to her core, she had to die. The blood begins to seep into the grooves of the stone when she stops, examining her work. She turns to Hannibal who stands in the doorframe, looking at the now deceased Freddie Lounds. She rises to her feet, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her hand.

"That was quite direct for you, Bedelia."

"What she wrote about you was despicable." He grabs her wrist and pulls her close, his lips meeting softly with hers at first, before he moves his tongue into her mouth, eliciting a moan.

Her hands are on his chest, removing his suit jacket as they move backward into her living room. She jumps him, his hands moving quickly to cup her firm butt in his hands, as her legs wrap around his back. She aggressively smashes her face against his, shoving her tongue into his mouth. She grabs his lip with her teeth and pulls back, gasping for air after she's drawn blood.

"Bedroom."

He runs his hands over her body as they ascend the stairs and kiss with desperation. His shirt is soon added to the stairs ascend, his fingers working the buttons of her blue blouse as he deepens the kisses. Pasionate. Desperate. _Hungry._ The door to her room slides open and he pushes her to the bed, climbing atop her. She lifts her hips and he drums her hip bone with his fingers before sliding off her skirt, revealing black lace underneath. She's reminded of her neck when she notices his eyes are on it and moves to cover it when his hand stops her.

"It's beautiful-You're beautiful." She looks apprehensive, but moans his name when his teeth nibble on her collar bone, tongue sliding up and over the scar, making a swirling motion when he gets to the jagged mark. His fingers slide into her and she forces her head back into the lush pillows of her bed. She tightly shuts her eyes and grabs his arms, pushing the flashes of memory that attempt to ruin the pleasure with success. Soon, she's begging him to enter her and her fingers are working at the belt of his dress pants.

She pushes him on his back and slides carefully on him, her hands planted on both sides of his toned stomach. He groans when she begins to move and gasps when her rhythm becomes a quick pounding movement up and down. She throws her head back, hair sliding over her shoulders like golden rivulets as she shouts, her hands splayed against his chest, and eyes rolled back in her head. He grabs full handfuls of her butt and aggressively forces her down on him once more and her eyes widen as he closes his. She feels warmth for the first time in months, and smiles in ecstasy. Sliding from him, she positions herself next to him, his hand caressing her face.

"You're the only one I can show my true self to." He spoke, knowing that she already heard the words before. His fingers trailed along her face and tipped her chin up so she could look him in the eyes. She needed to hear them again. Words like "I love you" were trivial and simple. People loved their homes, their food. It didn't express how they felt about each other.

"I'm sorry you've been hiding for so long… … I've missed you." He kisses her slowly and sensually. Anyone who would describe Hannibal Lector as a sociopath was terribly wrong. He felt. It just took the right fingers to take off his person suit. He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes, ones that finally conveyed emotion like they once had.

"I believe Ms. Lounds is getting cold, my love." He begins, moving out of the silk sheets of her bed. Their dinner would be delicious, although unfortunately for Ms. Lounds, she wasn't vegetarian in death. Tsk Tsk, such a hypocrite.

"Would you like red or white?" She asks, sliding on her clothes and fixing her hair.

"I think something pink."

A?N Next Chapter: There's trouble afoot when Will enters the picture once again. Be prepared for a more vivid/violent flashback of Bedelia's in the next chapter along with more prominent addressing of their almost child together. Next chapter will finally reveal the details of her attack. Thanks for all the support! Keep reviewing and I'll keep writing :)


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